Flamenco Flame
by WaterLily95
Summary: Strumming once more-eye to eye, blaze to strike- he marks his signature. Mystery incarnate, chilled to the heart of the flamenco dancer. The woman who dances only for him. ONESHOT


**Flamenco Flame**

"This girl doesn't seem to say much at all."

"I wonder where she's actually from."

"Doesn't seem to be from Andalusia."

A boy of fourteen years raced through the streets of a run-down town square. The dancer for the Andalusian dance academy was here and was assigned to him apparently. His trousers squeezed the circulation out of his legs as he ran faster and faster, past urban debris and luxuries of the taunting bakery. As he made his way through the ruses of everyday life and entered a nearby building, he saw that three of his so-called masters were huddled around a girl, bursting forth with inquiry. The girl-donned in a long robe- had dark, curly hair and looked about two years younger than him. And towards the end of the robe trailed the ruffles of a worn-out flamenco dress.

"Is she a mute?"

"I don't think so. She just doesn't like speaking to us, I'm sure."

_'__I'll bet,'_ the boy thought, rolling his eyes.

"She might have some potential, Franco," one of the men said.

The fourteen year-old watched in curiosity as the girl staggered forward a few uneasy steps, clutching onto her robe as if her life depended on it.

"She's a peasant!" Franco roared back. "I am not going to let her join our academy for free!"

"Play your guitar," the third man ordered, placing a friendly hand over the girl's shoulder. "We'll just see."

"Ten different people have tried playing for her!"

"Then you'll be the eleventh person."

"But Señor -"

"I don't need you to question your boss," the third man said firmly. He smiled at the apprehensive girl. "Go on. Don't fear."

Franco sighed and grabbed the instrument in the corner. The boy, now fully aware that the masters noticed his presence, leaned onto the doorway and breathed in the fresh Andalusian air. He kept his eyes on the mysterious girl. As Master Franco played, however, the girl made no move. Her eyes were kept towards the ground in fear and stubborn reluctance.

A few more moments of encouragement and Franco's hollers passed, but the girl made no effort.

"She's a mute, a deaf, _and _a physically impaired," Franco rolled his eyes. "I don't even think she understands the word flamenco itself. How can she possibly be trained in the art?"

"Maybe I can try playing," the boy offered.

The men looked in his direction simultaneously.

"Teen boys," the second man murmured lightly. "Always up to help the young ladies."

The girl miraculously changed her expression-from fear to a frown.

"I have to get used to playing for my partner anyhow," the boy shrugged, eyeing the girl.

The Señor smiled at the boy, glaring back at Franco. "That is what I call determination. Hand over the guitar, Franco."

Franco tossed his guitar towards the boy. "Go for it, kiddo. You'll be a goner by the time she makes up her mind."

The boy positioned the guitar effectively on his lap, and his quick fingers roughly seized the strings with enthusiasm. Music whispered its way through the men's ears and tickled past the girl's rosy cheeks. The girl wasn't moved.

The boy played an odd sequence, as if coaxing the girl musically to mark her talent.

Her expression was the same, but as the crescendo increased slightly, she made the effort to make eye contact with the Señor.

"Go on," the man whispered again.

This time she actually made the initiative to let the robe slip from her shoulders. She looked at no one. Her eyes briefly glanced over the boy's hand as it gracefully played the guitar, but other than that she was not seen from again. As gracefully as possible she melted into the standard flamenco opening sequence.

The men gawked at the young performers. Franco shook his head in disbelief.

The boy smiled as he continued playing, glancing up at her expectantly. Step after step, strum after strum, the girl found herself experiencing the musical rhythm until the flames of dance merged into an inferno.

The Señor smiled profusely. "She's a prodigy."

**...**

Fingers caress the strings. A stir of the soul. He blemishes the silence and strums again. Crimson dawns over the darkness. Heads swivel to his direction. He's not moved. An elusive guitarist.

The silence no longer exists as heels tap in parallel to the guitarist's intro. All but one don't resist his play of the strings. Strumming once more-eye to eye, blaze to strike- he marks his signature. Mystery incarnate, chilled to the heart of the flamenco dancer. The woman that dances only for him. Her eyes awaken. Dazzling embers, they resemble. Palms shake. His battle for her attention has begun.

The flamenco dancer swings her fiery breath. Her weight shifts to the other foot, hidden behind a ruffled waterfall. Skirt sways impatiently, and her thirst for dance lingers on. Her eyes move cautiously-right and left, up and down. Surroundings grow darker. Her gaze lowers.

His eyes focus on her breath-defying trance-lips that seldom uttered a word to him, eyes that glanced only at the floor, movements that interacted with nothing except dance… And despite the many years the guitarist had been conducting this starter ritual for her dance, both of them were strangers. Eyebrows raised, he observes the perfection in her denying to glance at him. His fingers move on, composing the symphony for her pulchritude. Her arms trail along the sides of her cascading dress. A tinge of confidence flares in her pupils, a smile a stranger to her lips, like a dragon clad in silk.

The rhythm begins. She is as still as a vagabond under the moon of dance. Cheers erupt from the volcanic approval. The guitarist and the dancer were not moved…yet…but were only subject to the spotlight that drenched them both. The guitarist's burning eyes didn't leave the bailarina, and he knew it was only a matter of time before her eyes would meet his.

The music continues with a little more of a beat. It's not just gentle sways of the arms anymore, but an approaching whirlwind of light spins. The crowd roars, but the dancer shuns it away. Decorous hips conducted a naïve twirl here and there, and a fine transition of facial expressions unknowingly beckoned his attention.

Twelve years of faithfully playing music for her dance only…certainly it would mean something to her. Something she should notice. But the guitarrista kept quiet. His unspoken questions reflected on his attacks of the instrument's strings.  
She dances with her dress. Her skirt fluctuates with the air. Twirls and elegant swivels of the skirt fight the battle with the guitarist. And she is winning so far. Another whirl. Faster and faster. The dancer swishes into action-accompaniment of taps abided by her side. Her feet gently clucked against the ground, and the hem of her dress flutters wildly.

He grows jealous. She still doesn't spare him that passing glance. Twelve long years of musical penance and she still doesn't look him in the eye. The flamenco heart is in flames; it's an inferno now.

The spins and hip sways continue elegantly, but the dancer is raging. Consecutive clapping of the hands set the rhythm in motion. Within seconds she whips out her fan and creates a tornado of attention right beneath her feet. The guitarist's heart pounds as he bruises his palm from playing so fast. The dancer's hair unravels from a bun to the individual strands of freedom, the rose in her hair fascinatingly intact.

Lotus dress parades its way as she twists and turns, spins and bows, culture embedded in the depths of her burning heart.

The inferno roars.

The crowd swoons.

The guitarist rages…

And the dancer concludes. The inevitable happens. The impossible takes place… _She looks at him._

The battle ends.

And he smiles.

"I win."


End file.
